58 him and pounded his chest, as he had seen others do. He pushed breath into the man's lungs, as calmly and evenly as he could. The man's mouth tasted like mus- tard. For an instant Berard forgot a lifetime of kisses and felt amazement that a human being had a taste. A man's taste defined him. Here was this sour old man. Mustard. He breathed hard into the man's mouth. Vinegar. He put his head on the man's chest, listened for something. He breathed again. Rotting fruit. Again. Pickled eggs. Again. Upholstery. Soon he quit, and, breathless from the exertion and emotion, he sat next to the old man and waited for the ambu- lance. It didn't come-at least not right away-and Berard wrapped his arms around his knees and turned his back to the sun to warm himself. He stood, and walked around the man's body. As a boy, he had seen dead bodies in his father's funeral home, but he had never actually seen anyone die, and the calm in the man's face seemed contra- dictory to the tension Berard felt. There would be the explanations-to the police, to Grace, to his friends and children. The story would get around; he'd be forced to correct people on the details if the facts were to be kept straight. "I was there to pick up scuba equip- ment," he would say. No, not that. "I was there helping this old man move a pumpkin." That seemed right, and it was. It was the truth. He wanted a piece of that, wanted to hold on to it. He looked around to get a good picture of the place, grabbed the old man's leg, touched his cheek, then stood up to look out over the inlet. Freeze this, he thought. Hold this. He picked up the old man's bow and bounced it in his hand, marvelling at its lightness and balance. In the dis- tance, to the north, he heard the ambu- lance coming toward him now. This released him from the moment and again he could hear the questions from his friends, and could see the story expanding and contracting, the reality of this day all but forgotten. As the ambulance raced up and over the drawbridge and then straight by the marina and off into the distance again, Berard leaned down and picked up an arrow he found in the sand. He laid it on the bow, drew, and fired at the pumpkin. He missed, having aimed too high, and the arrow stuck in the sand beyond it, making a sound like an emery board on thick toenails. The sound gave Berard a chill, as it always did when Grace filed her nails in his presence. He walked to the garbage can and pulled out another arrow. He aimed carefully this time, and as he "If peasant bread is five dollars, dare I ask about dinner rolls " released he knew that the arrow would hit the pumpkin. It flew in a rigid arc and struck the pumpkin about three- quarters of the way down, sinking in about five inches. Berard grabbed an- other arrow, took three or four steps toward the pumpkin, and drew back on the bow as far as he could. His arms wavered; his fingers hurt. He fixed his aim and released. The bowstring snapped taut. The arrow was gone. He heard the cut through the air, and the slice of the shaft into the pumpkin. Thoop. He stood for a moment, struck by the physicality of the event. Before, when the old man fired, it had seemed de- structive and arbitrary. But now he was thrilled by all of this. He took another arrow and shot it, striking the side of the pumpkin and catching. The sound seemed less rich than the last shot, so he fired again. It was a good while before the ambu- lance arrived, but when it finally did Berard was breathless. He had riddled the pumpkin with arrows, and it lay like a dead animal in the distance, slick arrows protruding chaotically from its hide. Berard heard the ambulance fi- nally make the right turn into the marina. He reached down and wiped the sweat from his hands onto his pant legs and set the bow down next to the old man. When the tires of the ambu- lance finally skidded to a stop on the gravel in front of the shed, Berard looked over the water at sunlight in the black glass of the office buildings. The brackish waves eased in and out against the concrete and the birds barrelled down from above. The old man, with his bow at his side, lay in a meadow of sand and pumpkin shells. Berard squinted, shaded his eyes. When he heard the clattering of the gurney, the crackle of the two-way radio, the anxious voices calling into the front door of the building, he turned and walked slowly out to those who had come to him. He had so many things to tell them - TOM CHIARELLA . DON'T GIVE IT A SECOND THOUGHT DEPARTMENT [From the Colorado Dazly newspaper of the University of Colorado] Males outnumber females on campus this semester, 13,128 to 10,938. There are six people who could not be classified as either male or female, L'Orange said.